The Suitors
by klained
Summary: When one of Sansa's suitors slips some herbs in her drink, Sandor takes it upon himself to protect the Queen of the North's honor.


Sansa could hear Septa Mordane's voice as she listened to her latest suitor drone on. _A lady does not roll her eyes._ Sansa found herself wondering if there was an exception for the Queen of the North. It would still be disrespectful, though, no matter if this was the tenth time in the same speech "the striking beauty of her eyes" was mentioned. She felt delightfully wicked at her relief when dinner was announced. Even a short respite from the empty praises was better than nothing. Her head was not so filled with songs and stories as to think her suitors came to Winterfell just for her beauty.

The visitors bowed as she rose from her throne. Without looking, she knew Sandor Clegane, her Captain of the Guard, fell in behind her. His arrival at Winterfell had been a surprise, though not an unwelcome one. He had asked for nothing, but readily accepted appointment as her personal guard. She tried not to think on how or why he seemed more dedicated as a queen's guard than a king's.

Standing at the high table, she watched as various suitors jostled for position at the tables below the dais. Some tried to sit as close to her seat as possible, while others sat to the sides, as though to hide from her sight. She could see, though, which ones whispered in the corners every time. She did not know why the men felt they needed to build alliances to woo her, but she knew who they were.

"Your Grace," one of her lady's maids whispered, "There is a concern in the kitchens."

With a gesture, she had Sandor wait behind her seat and followed the maid into the corridor. The cook paced, wringing a cloth nervously, her face coated in flour and tear streaks. Crying, she explained to Sansa that there was an accident in the kitchens and there was not enough dessert for all of the guests. Sansa reassured her that anything that can be given would be enough and she would forgo her own to allow for more. That minor crisis completed, she returned to the Great Hall.

Another of the suitors stood by her seat, ready to assist her. She tried to remember which this one was. Possibly one of the Frey's. She did not know why a half dozen of them had shown up, as though they thought any in the North would forget the Red Wedding. So many Frey's and their individual escorts were also the biggest strain on the kitchens. She knew in the morning she should send them on their way. For now, she stood before her chair and toasted her guests before sitting and thanking the man. He strolled away far too casually for her taste.

"Your Grace." Sandor kneeled at her left head, scarred cheek hidden from her sight, speaking lowly in her ear. "While you were away, he put something in your wine, but you returned before I could stop him or discard it. I've heard rumors some of the men were going to give you certain herbs that would… cause you to dishonor yourself."

She remembered seeing the man often whispering with others. Glancing about the hall, she found his regular companions watching her more intently than ever. She already drank half the cup. How strong where these herbs and how quickly were they going to work? Or did she need to drink it all for full potency?

"They are watching me," she whispered in return. "If I empty it now, they will know I suspect them. And I have already had so much of it."

Sandor rose and returned to his post behind her. Moments later, a goblet of cooled water was placed beside her wine. Sansa swallowed it gratefully. Idly, she wondered what the herbs were meant to do. It was meant to make her dishonor herself, but how? She had heard of some that cause a person to go mad, and some that made a person insensible. Did they mean to make her unfit to rule and create a civil war? She mentally took stock of her faculties. She felt in control of herself and her mind still felt her own. _Perhaps I have not consumed enough_, she decided.

As the night wore on, she strangely began to feel warm. Her face felt flushed and her blood seemed to race. Her skin was over sensitive. The wool of her dress seemed to rub against her flesh in a way it never had before. A weightiness moved low in her belly. Uncomfortable, Sansa tried to shift as little as possible, only to embarrassedly discover her smallclothes were becoming damp. She cast a glance towards the culprits. The Frey who had added the herbs was unashamedly watching her, clearly waiting for a reaction. Sansa drank deeply of her water, determined not to give him any satisfaction.

At last, the last of the meager desserts were passed around and eaten. Many of the suitors had eaten their fill and were either drinking heavily or shouting jests, their intents on her forgotten. Even much of the Frey party had forgotten her in place of some of her servants. The leader was the only who was able to restrain himself. By this point, though, Sansa found a deep throb deep inside her that distracted her from all else. She gave a gesture for Sandor to come close. As he came beside her, she felt his heat, smelled his scent in a way she never had. Her head began to spin and she took a deep swallow of her drink to clear her head. Too late, she realized it was the contaminated wine.

"The Frey watches me too closely," she whispered, her voice sounding deep to her ears. Sandor's brow rose slightly before he schooled his features again. "Escort me to my rooms." Her voice rose slightly, as though it was a request rather than a command, but Sandor still gave a nod and held out his hand to assist her.

Sure enough, they were followed into the corridors.

"Your Grace," the Frey spoke from behind. _Walder_ she thought his name to be, but many Freys had that name. "Please, allow me to escort you."

Sansa's knees felt like jelly and she gripped Sandor's arm more tightly than she intended. "Thank you, my Lord, but no." Her entire body felt aflame as the three of them stood, waiting for the other to back down. To her immense relief, Sandor was the one to turn her away and walk her to her rooms.

She was startled at how quickly they arrived at her rooms. The walk there had been silent, so absorbed as she was by the mere presence of her guard. A part of remembered how she had felt as a young girl, shaking at the sight of him. Now she felt herself shuddering again, but in something other than fear. At her door, Sansa felt herself wanting to beg Sandor to not leave, wishing she could command him to stay. The thought sent a throb to her core.

Decided, Sansa opened her door and, still holding Sandor's arm, stepped in. She was pleased when he followed, his good brow raised in confusion. After closing the door behind them, she stood on the tips of her toes and wrapped her fingers behind his neck to keep her balance and pull him down to her. His lips burned like wildfire against hers and she pressed closer. Every bit of him seemed to engulf her. She could smell the salty sweat from when he rose early to train, feel his body heat seem into her bones.

After a breath, a large, callused hand tangled into her hair and her fumbling kisses were returned. Pleased, her fingers began to scratch the back of his neck while her other hand fisted in his tunic. Sandor's tongue brushed her lower lip before pushing into her mouth. The hand not in her hair wrapped around her waist, rested on her bottom, and pulled her flush to his large form. The buckle of his belt pressed into her belly, the hilt of his sword grazed her hip. And she needed more.

She let her hand loosen from his tunic to slide down his large chest. Through the fabric, she felt the small twitch of muscles as she reached his stomach, then his belt. She tried to tug the buckle loose, but it only caused the glorious kissing to stop abruptly. The arm around her waist let go to grab the wrist at his belt. The hand in her hair fisted to painfully pull her away. Every part of her cried at the loss and she whimpered as she tried for another kiss.

"Stop," Sandor ordered. He pulled so hard his knuckles banged against the door. "What're you thinking?"

Sansa opened her eyes to find his grey ones boring into her. "I want." She broke off. What did she want? More of this, but just kissing was not enough. The hand behind his neck had slid to the front of his tunic. She slid her fingers up into his beard, her eyes never leaving his. A tendril of hair had slipped into his eyes from where he had brushed it over his burns. She reached up, pushed it to where it belonged on the undamaged side. "I want you to kiss me again," she whispered softly.

His face came close, as though he meant to do so, but stopped just a breath away. "You don't mean it," he growled. She opened her mouth to protest but Sandor continued. "The herbs in your wine are doing this. They make you feel desire you don't have. That Frey wanted to fuck you, little bird." Sansa didn't know if her blush was from his language or joy at the old name. "He meant to fuck you tonight so in the morning your honor would demand you wed him." She watched his grey eyes burn as they remained locked on hers before the slid to her lips. "I can't let you do something you'll regret." His grip loosened from her hair and wrist.

The throb between Sansa's thighs had turned into a heavy pound by this point. Not caring, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again, mimicking every action he had done. Some instinct had her pressing her hips to him. Missing something, she whimpered and tried to find some way of relieving what she could not name. Sandor's arms pulled her close again, one around her shoulders, one around her waist. Something ground into her belly. Surprised, she realized what it was.

He desired her. He wanted her as much as she needed him. The idea of the man who was once the Hound, the man who guarded and protected her every day, wanting into her bed, doing nothing to make it happen, briefly made her regret all the time she had spent fearing him. She pressed closer. Sandor again pulled her away, this time by the shoulders.

"Your Grace," he choked.

At last Sansa could reach for his belt and could see how to undo it. In a few hard tugs, the strap of leather and his weapons were off and on the floor. To her frustration, though, another belt kept his tunic cinched close to his waist. Sandor's hands slid down her arms until he held her hands between them. Her fingers alternated from stroking his skin and trying to reach for this second belt.

"Sansa," Sandor started again. "Look at me." She met his eyes. How long had he wanted her to look at him, to see him, but she was too afraid? "Did you understand what I said about the herbs?" Sansa nodded. "Then you know I can't let you do this."

Sansa sighed in annoyance. "I want this. I want you." She did not care that her voice sounded more like a whine than a proper lady. "The herbs make no matter."

"I won't let you dishonor yourself," he growled.

She raised her chin. "Then marry me." She felt her lips curl as he blinked at her. "Would you refuse your queen?"

In answer, she was pulled flush to him again, his lips almost painfully crushed against hers. One of his massive hands held her hips to his while the other roamed from her back to her breast to her neck and hair, and back. Her body thrilling, Sansa pulled at his tunic and belt, fumbling and fighting to feel him and not cloth. He seemed to have a similar need because with a jerk and a rip, her dress was ripped to her waist and her breasts were open to the cool air of the room.

Growling, Sandor dropped to his knees. He grasped and squeezed one breast while his mouth nipped and sucked at the other. Sansa twined her fingers through his hair as he suckled at her nipple. When he pinched the other, she let out a squeak and her hips bucked into his chest. His free hand grasped her hip tightly and pressed her back against the door. She let the door support her as she reveled in his wet tongue and sharp teeth consuming her skin.

It was not long, though, when she became impatient again, when the need between her thighs was too much to bear. She squirmed, trying to find some sort of friction against her desire. Sandor's hands dropped and tore her dress further. Now in ruins, he pushed it past her shoulders and slid the sleeves off her arms. Standing before him in naught but her smallclothes, Sansa shivered, though she did not know if it was the evening air or the effect of the herbs or just being so vulnerable in his presence.

Sandor unlaced and slid her smallclothes off next. As he watched her, he slid one hand up the inside of her thigh until he reached the juncture. She kept her eyes on his as she felt one thick finger slide easily inside and she sighed, imagining him laying above her, inside her. That finger rubbed hard against something that soon had her panting for release.

And suddenly his finger was gone. In a movement, he was standing above her again, his thigh against her juncture. Sansa rubbed against the rough cloth, the new sensation just as pleasurable as is finger. He leaned down and kissed her again, his tongue claiming her mouth as thoroughly as his finger had done a moment before. Then his hands stilled her hips.

"I can't stand for much longer, little bird," he rasped. Sansa opened her eyes to see his nearly black with need. "My leg," he tried by way of explanation.

At her nod, he backed away and released her after turning her to her bed. Her legs were shaky as she took her first steps, feeling like she was just learning to walk again. A loud smack and sharp sting to her buttocks had her moving more quickly. When she finally climbed on the mattress, she turned and gave Sandor a pout as he smirked and chuckled at her. Her expression soon changed as she watched him undress.

Just like his every other action, his undressing was matter-of-fact. He did not shy from her gaze, nor try to present himself in the best light. Sandor watched her, as though daring her to ask him to stop. Instead, the throb and need grew, and her hand moved between her thighs against her will. She gently rubbed either side of her opening and higher. Reaching the nubbin shot lightning through her legs to her toes. She watched his eyes drop to her hand's actions and another wave of excitement went through her. Feeling brave, she spread her legs wide enough for him to see.

With a snarl, Sandor crossed the room and pressed her to the bed. He had not yet removed his trousers and the rough fabric on his thigh was between hers again. As he kissed her lips, her jaw, her throat, Sansa ground against him again. But it was still not enough, not what she needed, and she found herself begging, though she was not sure what exactly she was asking for.

When Sandor shifted and his manhood pressed against her opening, she knew that was what she was looking for. She softly whispered a "please" and he drove into her. She cried out in surprise, not expecting how full she could feel, not realizing how empty she had been until this moment. His second thrust had her gasping, wanting to just feel, not rush for more. At his third, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, tried to hold him close, tried to drive him deeper into her. She lost count when they began to rock against each other, when he would thrust into her and she would try to follow as he withdrew. The air around them grew hot, their breathing labored until Sandor went rigid above her, thrust once more, and collapsed by her side.

Sansa still ached. She kissed his chest, his neck, anything to arouse Sandor's desire again. Instead, he pulled her down to the bed. One arm wrapped under her neck and around her shoulders. As he kissed her, his other hand reached back between her thighs. First two, then three fingers slide inside, rubbing as the heel of his palm ground against her nub. She felt his eyes on her as she gasped for breath and her own lids fluttered closed in pleasure. It was as though she was drowning in the sky and soaring through the sea.

And then she felt the lightning again. Down to her toes and through her fingers and out her head. She wanted to weep and cry out and laugh for joy and beg for this feeling to never end. And through it all his fingers rode her through the feeling until they slowed and stilled. As her body began to relax, Sandor rolled her to back and propped himself on his arm beside her. His lustful kisses had turned soft and tender as the fingers that had brought her so much bliss now gently stroked her side. Sandor said nothing, only watched as her breathing returned to normal.

Though her hand still shook, Sansa brought her fingers up to stroke his ruined cheek. He leaned into the touch, though he had told her once he no longer felt anything on that side. "How long have you loved me?" she whispered.

Instead of answering, he leaned down for another deep kiss before rolling onto his back and pulling her close.

Late in the night, the need arose in her again. Sansa quietly slipped her hand between her legs to not waken Sandor. He must have been sleeping lightly because he woke regardless. Once he determined what she was about, he pulled her on top of him and down onto his hardness. Without a word, he guided her to rock her hips, seeking her pleasure. After she sighed her release, he rolled them both over and found his own deep within her.

She knew the following morning she would need to turn all her suitors away, but for now she simply enjoyed the feel of her betrothed beside and within her.


End file.
